Love
by 100-percent-Harry-Potter-obsessed
Summary: Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices... Collection of oneshots.
1. Love is Patient

**A/N:** (Yawns and stretches arms high above head) Hey...look! Hibernation's over! (Realizes it never started) Erm...

To make up for my absence, here's a new fic consisting of many one-shots using many pairs, and based on the piece "Love is Patient..." Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

**Dedication:** This chapter goes to **_arnoldthefemalepurplepygmypuff_** for reading and reviewing all of my stories, through the good and the bad! Thanks a bunch! :)

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**Love is Patient**

She had known.

Way before Hermione. Way before she was confronted. Way before she caught Harry sparing her extra glances.

She had known.

She had felt his gaze follow her long, red mane as she made her way down the train. She had seen the way his eyes reflected his anger after she was caught kissing Dean. She had noted the satisfaction in his smirk when the two had a falling out.

She had known.

But hey…_he_ had known about _her_ feelings! _He_ had known how much she had adored him. _He_ had known how she was too embarrassed to even speak to him.

And yet, _he_ had ignored.

She had known…but she made him wait.

Just as _he_ had, her.

Because when Harry ducked his head to press his own lips to hers, Ginny had never felt such an electric shock.

After all, she knew, he would_ always_ be worth waiting for.

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**A/N:** Next chapter: "Love is kind".


	2. Love is Kind

**A/N:** The second installment...tell me what you think!

A quick note to my proof-readers: Yeah, I went against the majority vote. So, sue me.

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**Love is Kind**

"…And to wrap up, I'd like to share with you, with the permission of Mr. Lupin, a mission that will occur within the next few weeks...with his assistance."

The quiet atmosphere grew even more silent at the mention of yet another assignment that was to take place.

"You see, for he has a rather unique personality, and has given me the authorization to share with you something that _must_ be kept confidential."

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and with nothing but seriousness radiating from him, he placed both of his palms firmly down on the aged kitchen table.

"Mr. Lupin is a werewolf, and I have asked him, due to this, to attempt in infiltrating the normally _extremely_ secretive community of others like himself."

Remus, from his seat, watched sadly as some of the room's members showed reactions just as many in the past already had. He should have known better than to think that Dung's jaw would _not _hit the ground or that Hestia's eyes would _not _bug out in surprise or that Sturgis' jaw would _not_ clench. He felt stupid for giving himself false hope that _these _people would ever be able to treat him the same with the knowledge of his condition.

"…meeting dismissed! Molly, you may now serve dinner as you please."

Remus went to get up, straightening his robes in the process, and turning toward the stairs so that he might return home tonight rather than sticking around to hear the mutterings of his state.

"Remus?" asked a voice behind him. He felt his shoulders stiffen, wondering who was going to be the first to approach him. Oh, he could hear the endless questions and fearful tones now!

He twisted his body to face the person, and found himself blinded by shockingly pink bubble gum hair and sapphire-blue eyes.

"Remus?" Tonks asked again. "You coming to help me set the table? Because it _is _your night to help me. Though, I can't imagine why Molly won't let me handle a small bit of cutlery..." She babbled away, and Remus suddenly found himself grateful.

"Yeah, alright," he said, shrugging out of his cloak, and following her back into the kitchen, knowing for now, that maybe, just maybe, there was _some _hope.

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**A/N:** Next: "It does not Envy".


	3. It Does Not Envy

**A/N:** Yeesh! Traveling sure take s alot out of you! Well, guys, I'm avoiding reading _The Hobbit_, and writing an analysis on it. Can you really blame me?

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It Does Not Envy**

"_Fleur!_" he cried, rushing into her office and blowing several documents off the mahogany desk. They fluttered to the carpeted floor uselessly.

She glanced up, startled at the rather abrupt disruption. Her square reading glasses perched on the end of her fair nose (a sign that she was in deep concentration) told him that she had been hard at work only moments previously.

The blonde-haired woman behind the desk dropped her feathered quill and stood. The man before her seemed quite disheveled. His long, red mane of hair was tied up (per usual) and his fang earring dangled viciously.

"What is eet, Bill?" she asked worriedly, taking off her spectacles and placing them down. "Is something ze matter?"

"No, not at all!" came his giddy reply. Then, rather unexpectedly, his hands came down onto the polished surface in front of him. "Fleur. I _got_ the promotion."

The moment she'd heard those words, you would've thought that her heart plummeted, that her face fell, and that tears came to her crystal blue eyes.

But they didn't.

Because despite the fact that the resigning boss had allowed them all the chance to take his place; despite the fact that she'd never worked so hard than she had in those past few weeks; despite the fact that she had run errands and signed slips and filed folders and made tea; despite the fact that she'd really, _really_ wanted that job:

She couldn't feel upset. Or disheartened. Or jealous. Or angry, even.

The smile that appeared on her face as she congratulated him _couldn't_ be pasted or false. The cheerfulness in her voice_ couldn't_ express any disappointment.

No, because the grin that was spread across his freckled face wouldn't let her. She was _truly _happy for him.

And as he came around the wood mass between them, to swoop her into his arms and give her a mind-numbing kiss, she kind of thinks that she got what she wanted anyway.

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**A/N:** Well, it may not be my best work, but I hope it's mildy enjoyable.

Next: "It does not boast".


	4. It Does Not Boast

**A/N:** Well, I made Audrey _Penelope_ in the first draft. Hope it's not as sucky as THAT mistake!

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It Does Not Boast**

The bustle of the Burrow's kitchen is, per usual, filled to the brim with Weasleys, Potters, Delacours, Johnsons, Grangers, a Tonks, and a Lupin alike, with even a spare or two thrown into the mix.

_One big, happy family_, Molly thinks as she watches Angelina's mother attempt once more at feeding little James a spoonful of mashed potatoes. With Harry's temper and Ginny's stubborn nature, the little boy has been a handful since the day the two brought him home from St. Mungo's – big, brown eyes blinking wearily.

Setting down another casserole, the elderly woman's gaze surveys the room further.

Fleur, much like Mrs. Johnson, is feeding one of her boys. Of course, Bill has always been willing to eat anything of his Mum's, and Molly's heart swells at the site of Fleur's giggling face and Bill's rogue grin, knowing that her daughter-in-law, as rough around the edges as she may seem, truly is the perfect match for her oldest child.

Turning to serve some spinach to Hermione, her eyes can't help but stray to the miniscule bump that's formed under the girl's large jumper. She recalls the ecstatic look that had been spread across her son's face as he stumbled out of her fireplace only a week ago to tell her the joyous news. She doubts than anyone in London could possibly _not _be aware of Hermione's pregnancy by now, with Ron as the poor girl's own personal advertisement.

Molly watches as Audrey leans her head on Percy's shoulder while they discuss work with Monsieur Delacour and how George leans down to drop a kiss on Angelina's cheek every time he thinks she's not looking and how Harry's arm is wrapped securely around a lightly pregnant Ginny's shoulders while she argues vehemently with Charlie over the last Kenmare Kestrel's match.

The grandmother even laughs when little Victoire pushes Teddy out of his seat for making fun at her accent. Oh, how the pair remind her of Ron and Hermione. _It will be so obvious to everyone except them, of course_, her own brown eyes twinkle, as they meet Andromeda's in a wink.

But it is when warm, calloused fingers hunt for hers, and the two pairs intertwine, she looks up at her husband, feeling her heart explode from her chest, even after all these years.

For she feels that the best kind of love is often unspoken.

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**A/N:** Next up: "It is Not Proud."


	5. It is Not Proud

**A/N:** (slips in quickly and quietly - hoping that the reviewers haven't noticed her absence)

Oh...erm, hi! (gulps) Um, lovely weather we've been having lately!

(ducks and runs away screaming) Don't kill me!

Sorry, guys, that it took me so long to get this one up. I've just been so busy! Hope it was worth the wait. (And Meg - no complaints. I'm keeping it.)

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It is Not Proud**

"Alright."

"W-What?" astonished hazel eyes met green.

"I said: 'Alright'."

"Are you _certain_?"

"Well, James…I was until you asked me."

"_What?_" this time it was panicked. "No, no, no! Of course I – what I meant was…."

She couldn't help the small grin at seeing the almighty Potter babble like an idiot. "James, I _will _go out with you."

He halted again, still not quite trusting his years. "Really?"

"Really."

"Really really?"

"_Yes_, James."

There was a long pause, and then, with a few strides forward, he gathered her close and was kissing her.

_And she was kissing him back!_

When they surfaced, he wasted no time in snaking his arms around her waist and twirling her in his arms. Her red curls bounced merrily at her throwing her head back and laughing throatily.

In placing her on the ground, her eyebrows inched upward at the goofy grin that had appeared on _his_ lips.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Potter," she said, smiling brilliantly. "You haven't woken the entire castle yet announcing that Lily Evans has finally agreed to be your girlfriend. No banging on doors or having Peeves spread the word?"

Her teasing should have made him cringe, but instead his broad smile only grew and a serious light came to his eyes.

"Lily – I don't care who knows. Whether it be all of Hogwarts or just you and I, I'm happy because I've got _you_. Nothing else could possibly make me more pleased."

This time,_ she_ kissed _him_.

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R&R, si vous plait? Next up will be (a hopefully faster): "It is Not Rude".


	6. It is Not Rude

**A/N:** I'm sick. Therefore, inspiration for a story was imminent!

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand _to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It is Not Rude**

"Ah-_achoo!_"

Andromeda Tonks glanced up from her pile of tissues and stared miserably at her haggard reflection in the bureau's mirror. Her usually sleek, shiny black hair had taken a turn for the worse, sticking up at odd angles, and making her look rather like a flustered peacock. There were bags beneath her gray eyes and her poor, pale nose had been rubbed raw with Kleenex.

An irregular mess, the recently hired young Healer had unexpectedly obtained the flu during last week's epidemic at St. Mungo's. She'd woken that morning to an empty bed, a bout of chills, and not to mention, a spare few violent sneezing fits.

On the whole, Andromeda wanted nothing more than to roll over in bed, and send herself straight back to sleep.

But she couldn't do that. For the Black in her simply persisted too greatly.

Voices she hadn't heard since her adolescent years were rushing through her weary mind before she could stop them, barking instructions at the younger, ill girl.

_I don't care how sickly you say you are, Andromeda! Remove yourself from bed this instant!_

_Please dress and come downstairs presently, and for Heaven's sake, do something about that dreadful coughing!_

Dragging her aching body from the fluffy pillows of the comfortable bed, Andromeda made her way to the closet, planning to do what she'd always been told to in situations such as these.

_Oh, suck it up. You can hardly expect to entertain company looking like _that_._

She was almost across the room when the bedroom door opened, and in strolled Ted, laden with a tray of steaming tea and what looked like a bowl of chicken soup.

"Ready for some – Andy?" his eyes went quickly from cheerful to concerned. "Sweetheart? What are you doing out of bed?"

"Oh, Ted!" cried the poor girl, jumping behind the closet door. "You can't see me like this! Go on – let me get dressed."

"Dressed?" asked her husband, perplexed. "Why would you be – Andy, you don't think I care what you look like, do you?"

Now Andromeda was confused. "Well…isn't that expected? I've got to look presentable, haven't I?"

And that's when Ted threw his mousy-haired head back and simply laughed. "Andy. You're sick. Get back into bed."

"But I've got patients – and work – and I simply can't spend a day coming across like this!" She gestured to the mirror wildly as Ted towed her gently back toward the bed.

Lying back into her earlier position (with her missing spouse now in his rightful place), Andromeda's protests grew into quiet murmurings as the weakness in her body grew.

"Well, Mrs. Tonks," Ted spoke, his eyes twinkling. "_You_ may be the only person I know who must – what was it? "Look presentable" on a sick day. But you know what?" Here, he paused to look at the two of them in the mirror.

"What?" murmured the almost-asleep Andromeda.

"I think you look just beautiful."

Andromeda supposed that it wouldn't kill her to be less than presentable for a day.

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**A/N:** Yay for love! Doesn't Ted rock?

Review?

Next up: "It is Not Self-Seeking".


	7. It is Not Self Seeking

**A/N:** Well, to say the last two weeks were interesting would be no exaggeration. First, my computer stopped working altogether, had to be taken in (leaving me with a great deal of separation anxiety), and I received it back joyfully, only to find that all of my programs and personal touches were nowhere to be found. Life brings all kinds of funny little twists, hm?

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand_ to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It is Not Self-Seeking**

"_One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two_ – oh! Sorry, sorry_…._"

Astoria sighed. It hadn't been the first time someone had tread upon her small toes that night. She was beginning to think that she was cursed.

Just two dances prior, Miles Harper nearly tripped her with his overly-exuberant waltz, and about three or four dances before him (the poor girl was beginning to lose count), Malcolm Baddock and his too-long robes had made the fast-paced foxtrot rather difficult.

Yet, Astoria held her head high, and continued on like the brave soul she was.

Until now, that was.

The night was a lovely one, and the ballroom looked dashing. The sparkling chandelier had been shined, the tables arranged with elegant place-settings, and the dance floor scrubbed until it shimmered. Her parents had pulled out all the stops for this night, in the hopes that their youngest daughter might find her perfect suitor.

So far, however, all Astoria had managed to find was a one-way ticket to a long foot-soaking, later that night.

The girl looked upward hopelessly, praying that somebody, _anybody_, would take pity on her, and rush to her defense. But alas, sister Daphne remained deep in conversation with her sandy-haired fiancé, Father was paying rapt attention to whatever his business associates were saying, and Mother was of course, right by his side, feigning interest.

Not sure how much longer she could last, she tried in vain to think up an excuse as to why she might have to leave when –

"Pardon me, may I cut in?"

Both Astoria and her current dance partner (she believed his name was something along the lines of "Richard") looked up, startled, he from his deep concentration in counting each and every step, and she, from the sheer shock of someone possibly answering her unspoken prayers.

That was, until she saw who stood there.

Draco Malfoy cleared his throat once again, "Well…?"

Just as she was about to decline, her partner let go of her immediately and answered: "Of course, sir…go right ahead, sir" as though Draco would threaten him with bodily harm if he didn't.

Draco took hold of Astoria and began spinning her back into the third waltz of the night.

"You know, you really don't have to do this," Astoria started, embarrassed that someone who wasn't exactly prized for their reputation would turn out to be her savior.

The blond man didn't speak for several moments, before saying quietly, "I know."

"Your face will be splashed all over the morning Prophet. I know you don't need any more publicity."

"I know."

"…and yet, you still want to dance with me?"

He glanced down at her with those gray eyes of his, "Greengrass?"

She swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Just shut up and dance."

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**A/N:** Review please, please, please! I love to hear what you guys have to say!

Next up: "It is Not Easily Angered."


	8. It is Not Easily Angered

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand_ to spend that much time away from a pen?

**Dedication:** This one goes out to **Wackysocks**, for her kind critiques of my work.

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**It is Not Easily Angered**

Ten year-old Teddy Lupin stared blankly at the petite red-headed girl before him. She sniffled loudly and her bright blue eyes strained to look at anything but him. Her hands were folded behind her back, obviously attempting to conceal something cumbersome.

Needless to say, he was slightly confused as to why this meeting had been called.

After a few moments of silence, Bill Weasley pushed his eight year-old daughter a few steps closer to Teddy, "Go on, Vic, tell him what happened."

Victoire Weasley's face grew faintly pink, as though simultaneously upset (about what, Teddy had yet to find out) and embarrassed (likely for having to stand there in the first place).

The girl took a deep breath and removed the object that had been carefully hidden behind her small frame up until that point.

…that's when Teddy saw it. His Meteor 3000. In shambles.

The once finely-grouped bristles had become tufts, resembling those that lay on Grandpa Weasley's balding head. Splintered wood took the place of the broom's formerly shining handle and the glimmering "M" that has previously been etched into the broom's side as part of the "Meteor 3000" label seemed to have gone missing.

Teddy blinked several times, hoping that he was imagining this. This couldn't be _his _broom – the beautiful gift that Uncle Harry had personally given to him last Christmas.

"…just wanted to try it, and I know it was wrong. I'm so sorry, Teddy. I'll do anything you want me to do. I'll do all of your chores – I'll let you beat me at every game of Exploding Snap from now on –"

Teddy took in the damage cautiously and bit-by-bit, trying to assess which parts could be salvaged and which pieces would have to be scrapped altogether.

" – and, and – I'll give you all of my Chocolate Frogs! Just please, please, please don't be angry with me!"

Victoire's frantic words finally broke into Teddy's silent analysis of the broomstick. He glanced back up at her face, which was now growing from a blushing pink to a splotchy red as the girl tried her very best to restrain tears.

And that's when Teddy tilted his head to the side and for the first time opened his mouth: "You're alright, though? Nothing injured?"

It took a moment for Victoire to register what he had said and very slowly, she responded, "Yes, yes, but Teddy – your broom – I –!"

"Good," the young metamorphmagus cut in. "Then let's not try that again, shall we?"

Victoire gaped at him, then gradually her gaze traveled back and forth – from the broom and then back to Teddy. It made this trip several times, before her mouth elicited a, "But – but –!"

That's when the broom clattered to the floor and an extremely grateful Vic threw her arms around the older boy's neck and began to sob into his shoulder.

Teddy patted her back awkwardly and looked up to find Bill giving him a cheery thumbs-up.

Ah – who really needed broomsticks anyway?

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**A/N:** Hmm…somehow I feel like I'm stretching this one a bit. Ah, well.

Next up: "It Keeps No Record of Wrongs."


	9. It Keeps No Record of Wrongs

**Disclaimer**: It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can stand to spend that much time away from a pen?

**A/N**: I hate being swamped and disappointing everyone. Thank you kindly to those who have stuck it out. It means a great deal to me.

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**It Keeps No Record of Wrongs**

It's only a few days after the battle when he comes to her.

She is in Ginny's room, subconsciously steering clear of the gloom that has settled over the Burrow; thoughts of her parents' retrieval plaguing her mind, inner debates about whether she will be considered insensitive if she leaves sooner rather than later, and organizing her multiple stacks of books – simply to keep her hands occupied.

But she is quick to drop Hogwarts: A History and turn when the door behind her creaks open.

There is no knock.

He stands before her, his eyes pained and red-rimmed, and his frame tensed – gazing at her in a manner she's not exactly familiar with.

"Ron?"

It comes out quietly and there is silence for a beat. Then he's in front of her, his arms engulfing her smaller frame and his face finding the crook of her neck.

She slowly places own arms around him in a comforting gesture, and the two lean against one another.

They don't talk.

They don't talk about the heat of the battle or when the wall collapsed. They don't talk about his departure from their expedition or her desperate cries for him to stay. They don't talk about his destroying the locket or their moments in the chamber. They don't talk about Lavender or Cormac or Viktor. They don't talk about the numerous times he's caused her tears or the moments in which she was, perhaps, too demanding.

But in a way, they don't have to. So, they just stand silently, letting it all fade away.

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**A/N**: Feedback? Criticism?


	10. It Does Not Delight in Evil

**A/N:** So, I could give you several excuses as to why I've not been updating, but "life" might just sum up these distractions best, and you don't want to read my ramblings.

I will, however, tell you that I re-wrote this chapter several times (and still wound up focusing on the second part of the phrase more than the first).

Anywho, onto it!

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand_ to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It Does Not Delight in Evil, but Rejoices with the Truth**

To say that Harry couldn't sleep was an understatement. Every time he'd closed his eyes in the past week, all he could see were slicing eyes and flashes of green – not to mention the added scene with Mr. Weasley over and over...and over again.

Needless to say, when the Boy-Who-Lived groped for his wire-rims and shuffled for the door at quarter to four, he knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight.

He headed for the Blacks' grand kitchen, taking extra care to not stir the muffled (yet ever-muttering) Mrs. Black or to examine the mounted house-elf heads too closely.

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, the bespectacled boy saw that a lamp had already been lit, and a certain young redhead was seated at the long table, sipping a cuppa.

"Oh," said Harry, stopping altogether. "Hi, Ginny."

"Hey, Harry."

Harry stood for a moment, hesitant in the doorway. "Should I –?"

Ginny shrugged. "S'not my house."

Harry took that as an affirmative answer and proceeded toward the kettle.

"Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry about yelling at you earlier."

That made him turn. "Er, okay?"

There was a long pause before Ginny gave him a wry look over the curve of her teacup. "But you know it needed to be said, right?"

Harry lowered his head, contemplating, and then, after a beat, replied, "Yeah, I know."

He turned back to the stove, her words from earlier that day coming back to him, and somehow, that made him feel just a little bit better.

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**A/N:** Next up: "It Always Protects."


	11. It Always Protects

**A/N:** Life. That's my best excuse.

But I WILL finish this story.

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand_ to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**It Always Protects**

She isn't quite sure how it happened.

She recalls the funeral. She recalls standing beside the casket, beside George, and bidding silent farewell to the boy (_man_, she corrects herself) who was her sixth-year sweetheart.

She recalls stopping by the shop in the weeks following and helping stock the new shipments. She recalls murmured conversations; small talk which said very little. She recalls the routine's start and its progression over time.

But then, she also remembers standing up for him. Redirecting customers' eyes after lengthily periods of staring and telling _Prophet_ Reporters to remove themselves becoming particular specialties.

She remembers steering conversations away from one particular name (_always dancing around, never landing upon_) and never herself mentioning it.

She recalls becoming, in a way, his protector.

The moment she recalls perhaps most vividly, though, is the one where blue (_oh-so-blue_) eyes meet hers across the café table and suddenly, her hands are in his, and she can't breathe.

"Thank you," is what he rasps, but his eyes tell her so much more.

And she finds her voice long enough to breathe out, "You're welcome."

Oh, yes. Angelina Johnson recalls being there for George Weasley, but she wonders _when_ exactly she fell in love with him.

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**A/N:** Sorry, guys. Next one'll (hopefully) be up soon.


	12. Always Trusts

**A/N:** Life. That pesky thing that gets in the way.

**Disclaimer:** It's been four months since I've last written. Do you think Jo can _stand_ to spend that much time away from a pen?

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**Always Trusts**

She's tucked into a corner in the fourth floor corridor when he finds her. She's barely conscious and half-covered in rubble – the remnants, no doubt, of the wall which has collapsed opposite her.

He would have missed her if not for the light whine which emits from the back of her throat, and in a moment, he's at her side.

"Hannah!" he shouts, clearing away brick bits in search of her green, green eyes. "Hannah! Can you hear me?"

Her eyes flicker slightly and the fingers on her left hand twinge somewhat to show she can. He envelopes that hand quickly, but does not dare move her, because _honestly_: what does he know about medical attention?

"Hang on," he says, his voice straining a bit, and reaches his other hand – wand and all – into the pocket of his robes, pulling out the familiar DA coin in a moment.

She faintly hears him speaking to her, but the words are muddled, and she's so tired…_so _tired.

"Stay with me!" he says forcefully, feeling her hand grow limper in his. "Hannah, _please_. You've got to stay with me. Help is coming."

He drops the warm galleon back into his pocket and squeezes her hand a little more firmly. He's got a long scar running the length of his left cheek, his eyes are swollen, and his heart hasn't stopped pounding all night, but Neville'll be damned if he lets anyone else go out on his watch tonight, especially not this blonde-haired girl he's shared Herbology with every year.

She feels herself being jerked back to the surface – _reality_. It's frightening and somewhat painful, but she's awake and her eyes are staring blindly at a ruined ceiling and she can hear every word he's saying.

" –Madame Pomfrey will fix you right up. She'll know exactly what to–"

She squeezes his hand weakly and his sigh of relief echoes wildly.

Pounding footsteps signal help's arrival and she hears Neville shout, "Over here!"

Turning back to the girl before him, he speaks more quietly, "All right. The guys'll take you directly to the Hospital Wing. I've got to keep looki–"

But the words tumbling out of his mouth are terrifying her. He can't be leaving her! Not now!

And just he tries to disentangle his hand from hers and lift himself from the wreckage, he feels her grip tighten impossibly and looks down to find green, green eyes filled with panic.

He makes a decision then, and leaning down, whispers, "I promise I'll be there as soon as I can."

Her grip does not loosen and he looks directly into her eyes when he says, "Trust me."

When she wakes up from her treatment in the Hospital Wing two days later, she finds herself with a broken wrist, a killer headache, and a bedraggled boy snoring at the foot of her bed.

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**A/N:** Next: "Always Hopes."


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